


Road Rage

by avalise



Category: South Park
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avalise/pseuds/avalise
Summary: Randy Marsh surprises Stan with his own car, Cartman has 30,000 tickets to cash in for a big prize, Kenny is reveling in a kickass cheese sandwich, and Kyle is just excited to have a nice, chill day at the arcade. Nothing can possibly go wrong. Style.





	1. Part One

Road Rage - Part One

Outside of the Broflovski household, teetering on the edge of the curb, stands Kyle. He's eyeing down a dilapidated vehicle in front of him that is supposed to resemble some type of functional car. The paintjob is not professional, the passenger side mirror is missing, and the trunk is held shut by a bungee cord. He leans his head through the open window, "Dude…when you told me that your dad bought you a car, you didn't mention that he swiped it from an impound lot."

Despite the pessimism permeating from the curb, Stan's smile is bright and cheerful, "Come on, it's not _that_ bad. Just get in."

Kyle slides into the '89 Taurus, albeit carefully. The door swings shut with a loud screech and he hisses out a wince from the noise. With the paintjob still fresh in his mind, his eyes scan the interior—and yeah, it's _that_ bad.

"First of all, you don't have a radio," Kyle points to the empty area that most certainly should be containing a radio. "Second of all, there are chunks missing from the seat cushions, and—" the deflating ceiling interrupts him, "Are those pushpins, dude?"

Stan nods, bouncing the hanging fabric above with his fingertips, "The covering's starting to sag down. If I don't use pushpins, the ceiling drops on my head. It's not a big deal. It's just the fabric. It's not like the roof is caving in."

"Right."

Stan leans over and lands a quick and sweet kiss onto his Kyle's lips. When they started dating, Kyle was the first to complain about not receiving enough affection besides intense make out sessions inside Stan's locked bedroom. Out of the two to mention something like that first, it's the half that pulls away from any sort of PDA. When Kyle had told Stan that he wanted more affection, Stan laughed, because why wouldn't he? He was always the one trying to be more romantic and then Kyle says something like that. But from that moment on, no matter who they are around (besides the parents, of course,) Stan greets and leaves him with a kiss.

Stan lingers in Kyle's space for a moment after they part, "It works—that's all that matters," he says, still smiling, and falls back into the role of responsible driver as he snaps his seatbelt into place.

Kyle's disposition changes from the temporary distraction. With a warm smile dipped and curved for only his other half, he says, "Well, it's better than no car at all, I guess… I hope you know that this makes you my own personal chauffer now." He wraps himself in a seatbelt with sporadic holes and frayed thread, briefly wondering just how safe it could _really_ keep him if the time called for it.

Stan shrugs and pulls away from the green home, leaving a heavy cloud of exhaust to hover above the asphalt. "I'm usually going the same places you are anyway."

"Really? You're gonna have an awesome time at the synagogue with me then this weekend. I'm getting sick of driving with my parents."

"Okay, not everywhere."

Stan has been stuck driving his father's car around ever since he first received his driver's permit on his fifteenth birthday. Borrowing your parent's car has many restrictions, mainly time, so he's been bugging his dad for a piece of transportation to call his own for his sixteenth. Randy always brushed him off and told him that he will get him a car, eventually.

This morning turned out to be eventually—about two months after Stan turned seventeen.

His father waved the keys in his son's half-asleep face at the ass-crack of dawn and said: "Today, you are a man." Of course, Stan just stared at him like he was growing a fetus on the side of his head. How would he know that a statement like that would mean a car was waiting outside for him? When he looked out of his bedroom window to see what his father was talking about, he almost leapt through the roof before running outside to the totally awesome, totally brand new convertible sitting in front of his house.

Just before his hands could touch the gorgeous navy paint that glistened with perfection in the morning sun, his dad, clad in just a robe, socks and a cup of coffee, said, "Whoa, don't touch that. The alarm _will_ go off. That's the neighbor's new car. Your beauty's across the street."

Stan looked in said direction only to see a parked green and brown monstrosity, looking even less appealing with the convertible sitting in front of his house. He decided right then that his neighbors shouldn't park their lavish crap anywhere near the Marsh household.

But, despite what the car looked like, Stan ran over to it anyway with excitement brewing past disappointment. The thing had four wheels, hopefully an engine under the hood, and that's all that Stan cared about. His father assured him multiple times that it worked, because of course Stan had to ask more than once.

He doesn't normally trust his father—ever—but this is a fucking car.

This is freedom.

The drooping cloth above him doesn't matter—there are pushpins for that. Even the paintjob doesn't faze him, nor does the ajar trunk. Because out of all of his friends, he is the first one with his own car, and this makes him totally and completely badass.

Stan's next stop is Kenny's house. Kenny lives closest now ever since he moved out of the bad part of town, so in terms of geography, it makes much more sense to pick Kenny up first, even before Kyle. But, Stan has always had unspoken rules while driving. One of them is that Kyle is always first when rounding up his friends. This rule was set in place even before Stan received his official license. When Kenny sat in the passenger seat, Kyle would be in the back, fencing in the urge to commit homicide against certain fat individuals. It didn't make the ride anything but fucking annoying. Stan figures it just works better with Kyle riding shotgun.

Kenny's front yard is covered with more junk than usual. To be precise, it's covered in old lumber and scattered, empty beer cans. Stan presses his hand into the horn twice and it struggles to wheeze out a pathetic excuse of a beep. Stan wonders if Kenny even hears it and Kyle just shakes his head in secondhand embarrassment. This car can't be real.

Kenny runs out of the house like a horse at the sound of a gun. He's dashing right for Stan's car, leaping over boards of lumber with the ease of an Olympic champion.

"He looks in a hurry," Stan says matter-of-factly.

"You think?"

Kenny practically jumps into the car, yelling, "Go! Go! Go!" through a muffled encasing of fabric around his head.

Stan reacts just as quickly, darting away from the house with a heavy foot. He isn't sure why they have to pull away so fast, but he doesn't hesitate. Kenny looks like he was running away from a serial killer.

Then Kenny starts laughing.

"Dude," Kyle says, turning around to face the backseat, and Stan slows down to the speed limit once he's away from the house.

Kenny doesn't acknowledge Kyle and turns around to look out the back window, sitting on his knees. He catches a glimpse of his brother outside, waving an angry fist in the air, and yelling unheard obscenities.

He turns back in his seat before panting out another laugh. He pulls down his hood to reveal a victorious grin and messy blonde hair. Kenny doesn't own a hairbrush, but the messy look works in his favor for some odd reason. This gets on Kyle's nerves. Any hair product in the world can't tame the jungle on Kyle's head, and all Kenny has to do is wake up.

Stan eyes his new occupant through his rearview mirror and sees that Kenny is holding a sandwich.

"Yeah…" Kyle begins, still turned slightly in his seat, "what the hell was that?"

"I stole Kevin's lunch because he's a douchebag."

"What kind of sandwich is it?" Stan asks, genuinely curious.

Kyle arches an eyebrow and turns to his driver. He figures the more important question here is why Kevin is being a douche, not the kind of sandwich Kenny is about to eat, "Why is that even relevant?"

Kenny parts the two slices of bread and smiles as if he is holding filet mignon, "It's cheese." Before he bites into it, he looks around, taking in his surroundings for the first time since he's been in the car. He doesn't give the other two an opportunity to speak further on the sandwich-stealing matter. "Well, isn't this a nice pile of shit car."

"Jesus Christ, Kenny. You can walk, you know," Stan says, the crease in his forehead visible through the rearview mirror.

"Don't be defensive. It's not like you bought it. You can admit that it's a shitty car."

"But it's still a car."

"It's still a car," Kenny repeats. "So yeah, I guess that in itself makes it pretty awesome." He pauses, "Are those pushpins?"

Within the few blocks between Kenny and Cartman's house, the passengers that Stan is driving to the arcade—out of the kindness of his own damn heart—decide to complain the entire time about no radio. He tries to ignore them, but it's not like he has music to drown them out with.

At Cartman's front door, his mother hugs her son like it's the last time that she will ever see him. She kisses him on the cheek before he starts to wobble down the front pathway in that awkward step that he has from too much body mass covering his bones. He's carrying a backpack with a bouquet of yellow tickets bouncing along through a half open zipper.

Stan swears the car tilts in Cartman's direction when he sits behind him. Cartman always has to sit behind Stan or else he'll kick Kyle's seat the entire ride. This is rule number two.

"What in the hell is this thing you're driving, Stan?" He asks, tucking the bag by his legs on the stained floor mats.

"My dad bought me a car for my birthday."

"Wait, your dad actually paid for it? I could take a shit nicer than this."

"You've cut your diet down to just automobiles now, Fatass?" Kyle questions, not skipping a beat with the sarcasm.

"Shut the fuck up, Jew. Speak when spoken to."

"Don't talk to me like I'm a fucking dog, Cartman!"

"God, shut the hell up, you two," Stan scolds, playing the parent, "We're not even at the arcade yet and you're already going at it?"

"He started it," Cartman says, crossing his arms over one another.

"Yeah, give us a break for once," Kenny chimes in. The arguing between the two gets on his nerves just as much as it does Stan's, "It's not like we have a radio in here to play over you."

"What?" Cartman asks, completely appalled. He moves forward and sticks his head between the front seats to scope out this missing radio situation. "Jesus Christ, Stan. Did your dad steal this thing from Kenny's family?"

Kenny smacks him in the shoulder, but doesn't look the least bit offended. He's too involved in his brother's sandwich to care.

"I don't know where he got it. He wouldn't tell me."

"Really, dude?" Kyle looks at Stan curiously, "That's kind of suspicious, don't you think?"

"I agree," Cartman leans into the back seat and then he inches his bag away from Kenny. Kenny is too poor to be trusted with valuable tickets sitting so close. "If your retard dad won't tell you where he got it from, then it's gonna break down halfway there. I bet you."

"Shut up, Cartman, it is not. It's running fine."

"Wait for it, pussy. Something is up."

Stan ignores him and just continues on the route that he knows all too well. But now, he feels a little uneasy about his car since everyone keeps ripping on it. At first, he thought it was going to break down before he even made it to Kyle's house, but then he reassured himself. There are no odd noises while driving, no issues with the breaks… His dad wouldn't give him a death trap as a present.

At least, he doesn't think that he would.

He decides to keep it a little under the speed limit. Just in case.

Kyle leans back into his seat and props a foot up on the dashboard. He doesn't care if he makes himself comfortable at the expense of a few scuffmarks. This car is far from a Lexus. He leans his head against the window and notices dark clouds hovering in the sky, "It looks like rain."

Kenny gazes upward with a final bite of stale crust, "Hope we don't rust before we get there." 

X x x X

The parking lot for Ed's Arcade is packed. It always is on Saturdays, so the trouble with parking is expected. Cartman throws the idea out there to park in a handicapped spot since he thinks that Stan's car is handicapped, but no one even pays him the slightest bit of attention.

After a few minutes, Stan finds a reasonable spot to park. He turns to Cartman with a proud smile as the other two exit; both doors resonating a cringe-worthy sound that's heard three spots down. "See? We made it just fine."

Cartman waves him off and hugs his backpack to his chest before taking his leave from the car with just as much noise, "Wow, it made it through a half hour car ride. Big deal. It's only day one."

Stan ignores him and the quartet make their way into one of their favorite places. Ever since they had access to a car, they've upgraded arcades to jumbo size by driving down to Denver for Ed's. They're here at least three times a week now.

The rain begins to spit from the sky, but the boys make it inside before they notice any change in weather.

Jumbo is an understatement—Ed's Arcade is massive. It's the biggest arcade in the area. Stuffed animals and scooters hang from the high ceiling in between blinking lights and red marquees. Towers of crane machines border the wall around the obscene amount of video game domes and stands. It's an electronic heaven.

Today is a big day for Eric Cartman. He is only fifty tickets away from being able to trade in for a Gold PlayStation 3. It's 30,000, but worth it, so he says. Kyle has gotten into entirely too many arguments about the subject. He's tried to tell Cartman countless times that he's only trading in for the color, that the PlayStation isn't made out of _actual_ gold. But Cartman swears that he is just being a lying Jew, as always.

It's also a big day for the other three. After today, they don't have to hear him constantly harp about getting this prize like he has been for the past six months.

Cartman is also a Skee Ball fanatic, but not because he particularly likes the game. There are only two reasons for playing: it's easy to cheat and it spills out a lot of tickets. With Kenny's help, it's much easier. Kenny stands at the opposite end of the lane while Cartman rolls the balls to him so that he can place all of them into the 100 points pocket. Kenny, of course, does not do this for free. Cartman throws him a few quarters in return and this is how he gets money to actually play something in the building. As soon as he and Cartman walk into the place, they begin to make their way over to the Skee Ball corner.

Stan and Kyle split into the opposite direction to a Zombie co-op game. Unlike Cartman, they never really care about winning tickets. Ed's is just a fun place to hang out and play games. Stan rattles change in his pocket and then inserts quarters for he and Kyle into the machine.

The plastic guns sit idly in their holsters in front of the screen and before Kyle even knows that the money is in the slot, Stan grabs the blue pistol first, "Ha! Got it."

"No way, dude. I used the pink one last time," Kyle says, grabbing for the gun in Stan's hand, but it's pulled away.

"Too slow."

Kyle growls lightly under his breath and yanks the baby pink gun from the holster. The game powers on and the two speed through the first level like they've done it a thousand times, because they just about have.

Over on the other side of the building, Cartman and Kenny haven't even made it to the Skee Ball area yet because Cartman is too busy pacing in front of the main counter—the main counter that fences in the prizes. "Where the fuck is it!" He yells, as his eyes scan the many shelves of metal slinkies, plastic rings, neon signs, and other various, but mostly useless, items.

Kenny just shrugs as he watches his fat friend pace angrily, "Someone probably cashed their tickets in for it, dude."

"But _I_ was saving tickets for it!"

"It's not like your name was on it. You can't put a prize on lay-a-way while you collect tickets for it."

"You poor bastard. Who puts things on lay-a-way anymore?"

"Fuck you."

Cartman notices a tiny silver bell sitting beside the cash register. He stomps over and smacks it repeatedly with as much force as he would a reappearing fly. The bell screams and splits through the air with the ability to distill fear into any employee that has to deal with this.

Eventually, a teenager in a red vest appears from behind a beaded door, his face a maze of pimples, "Can I help you?" His voice squeaks with puberty.

"Yeah, you can help me. Where is the Gold PlayStation 3?"

"Oh that? That was cashed in yesterday."

" _What?!_ "

"Sorry, sir."

"This is fucking bullshit!"

Kenny rolls his eyes and decides to flee the scene as Cartman lays into the underpaid employee. He can get money somewhere else without having to cheat at Skee Ball. He sees Stan and Kyle murdering Zombies off at the other end of the building and heads off in that direction.

As he makes his way towards them, his eyes coast the carpet for lost change. This is a tactic that has proven to work pretty well thus far. In a huge arcade where kids are carrying around heaps of coins by the handful, a quarter or two is bound to fall to the floor at some point. He finds three before making it to the undead massacre.

"What's Cartman bitching about over there?" Kyle asks, but doesn't glance away from the screen. He pops another Zombie in the head, causing a gory explosion from his gun with pink feminine appeal.

"You can hear him?" Kenny asks, and he leans against the side of the game tower, pocketing the profit he made during his walk.

"Yeah, dude," Stan says, "We're only on the complete opposite side of the arcade."

Kyle scoffs a laugh, "Yeah, people can probably hear him in the parking lot, too."

Kenny's eyes dart back and forth between the walking dead and the walking homos, "Someone bought that gold PlayStation."

At this, of course, Kyle bursts into laughter and almost lets his character take a bite to the neck. His day is turning out better and better. First, Stan gets his own car, and now, this, "Sucks for him."

Sucks for him indeed because Cartman is now approaching the three boys, dragging his feet, alongside a security escort. When he reaches his friends, he says through clenched teeth, "We have to go, you guys."

The three of them look up, each as surprised as the other. Cartman's face is flushed with anger and his eyebrows are dipped into a steep V. Kyle smacks the start button to pause the game, obviously none too pleased, "What?"

Stan sighs and puts the gun in its holster and looks at the security guard, "What happened?"

The guard, who has a tight handle on Cartman's collar, looks down at the boys with the utmost posture and a stern face, "Esteban thinks that appropriate behavior in a family area involves yelling profanity and throwing courtesy bells at our employees. Sorry boys, but that kind of behavior is not tolerated here at Ed's Arcade."

Kyle turns to Stan and mouths the name "Esteban?" with a confused face. Stan just shakes his head.

"He says that you boys are his ride home. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask the three of you to leave as well if that's the case."

"What!" Kyle yells, "We just got here!" He slams his gun into its holster, angry at the fact that it can't be used as an actual weapon on the tub of lard in front of him.

"You're going to have to leave, sir."

"This is bullshit! Why the hell are we held accountable for his actions?"

"Do not yell profanity, sir, or I will be forced to ban you from the building like I've just banned Esteban here."

Kyle grinds his teeth, grabs Stan's hand and pulls him along as he storms out the front entrance in a wave of frustration. Stan just shoots an annoyed look at Cartman before following along and trying to prevent his arm from being pulled out of its socket. Kenny stays back and rolls his eyes, "Come on, Esteban."

"Of course it has to be raining," Kyle says, as he and Stan walk right into a waterfall of rain. The beads of water trickle down their clothes, onto to their wrists, and through their clasped palms to form tiny puddles that slip through the cracks of their intertwined fingers. Stan just keeps his head down as Kyle complains about the situation while they weave in and out of raindrops back to the car, their steps quick. "Goddamnit, I can't believe we have to leave because of that fat fuck. Remind me why we hang out with him again?"

"We grew up with him, Kyle."

"Unfortunately."

Once they reach the car, both the passenger door and the driver's door open in sync and the two drop into their seats. Water pelts the hood of the car like marbles.

"This fucking sucks," Kyle arches his neck back over the top of the cushion and his eyes land on the falling ceiling fabric that is only a breath away from touching in his face, "And your car sucks."

"Just because you're pissed off at Fatass, doesn't mean you can take it out on the car, dude."

"Aren't you pissed off, too?" He turns to Stan, "I mean…you're the one who drove us all the way down here for nothing."

Stan shrugs, "Yeah, I guess. It's lame, but I'm not gonna let Cartman get to me. We'll just go home, do something else, and we'll come back here another time without him. Look on the bright side, at least we don't have to drag him here with us anymore. He's banned now."

Stan's comforting words don't do much for Kyle. His afternoon is shot now because Cartman is a violent, spoiled brat. He spills another annoyed sigh over his lips and takes a glance at the rearview mirror. Kenny and Cartman are finally walking back through the rain, approaching the car. He looks at Stan, "How can you always do that? I want to punch him in the fucking face, and you're just like 'no problem, dude. Next time.'"

Stan smiles, "Drives you crazy, doesn't it?"

The smile is contagious, "Totally."

They can hear Cartman complaining before he's even in the car. Kyle suddenly wishes that he had only spent the day with Stan. They have a car now. They could have come here by themselves, spent an awesome day at the arcade, and then went back to Stan's to hook up for three hours like they did last weekend. But no, Kenny and the asshole had to come. Kyle's day totally sucks now.

Kenny suddenly runs the rest of the way to the car, and reaches it before Cartman. He jumps inside, landing like a drenched rag doll. Just as Cartman attempts to enter the car as well, Kenny punches the unlocked handle with an aggravated fist.

Cartman tries to open the door, but it's locked. He tries to open the other three doors, but they're locked, too. He screams in the parking lot as if he were a rabid animal in a snow hat instead of a seventeen-year-old boy, "What the fuck, Kenny! Let me in!"

"No way, doucher! Fucking knock it off with all the poor jokes or Stan is leaving you here!"

Kenny never checks for approval. Stan and Kyle just stare at each other, bemused grins catching onto each other's faces, "I'm not totally against the idea," Stan admits.

"It's fucking pouring out here! Open the goddamn door!" Cartman rattles the handle, his hand frantic. His clothes are already drenched in water, and his pasty hair sticks to his glistening forehead beneath the wet brim of his hat, "Kenny!"

"Apologize!" Kenny yells through the window.

"Goddammit, okay, fine!" Cartman yells, his voice competing with loud crashes of thunder, "I won't rip on you anymore for being poor!"

Kenny flicks the lock open and shifts over in his seat. Cartman finally enters the car and slams the door shut, causing the whole vehicle to shake. "Not one fucking word," he says, hugging his soaked backpack and unused tickets to his chest, "Let's just get the hell out of here."

No one says anything because they unanimously agree on something for once.

But when Stan tries to turn the key in the ignition, his car groans with only a putter to the engine—The Little Car That Could. He tries a second time, but he gets the same reaction. Even a third and a fourth time.

"Stan?" Kyle's eyes are on the dangling keys and Stan's pressing grip.

"Tell me this piece of shit isn't working," Cartman says flatly from the back seat.

Stan tries a fifth time, his fingers flicking with irritation. "What the fuck," He breathes, his face getting heated. His hand turns a sixth time and he considers a seventh but he pushes himself back into the seat, his spine straight and his jaw tight.

"Fucking great," Cartman drops his arms to his sides and his bag tilts lifeless against the door.

Stan shakes his head slowly but repeatedly as he stares at the steering wheel, the weather outside mimicking the resentment he can feel beginning to form for his careless father.

"Stan?" Kyle asks again, his hand coasting to comfort his boyfriend, but Stan jerks his shoulder away.

Stan grabs for his cell phone, his movement quick and spinning in aggravation. He presses the number two—speed dial for his dad. He glances at Kyle and mouths a "sorry" for his abrupt movement while the phone connects.

Kenny just leans his head back, looking through his parka at the sagging ceiling above, keeping relatively quiet. Cartman directs his eyes to Kenny's target of sight and cocks an eyebrow, "The fuck? Are those pushpins?"

When Stan's father picks up the phone, Stan explains his situation with exasperation. He's a fool for trusting his father with giving him a usable piece of machinery. He should have expected this. Thing is, he did. He just didn't want to believe it.

"No way, Dad. We can't go anywhere…Pick us up…No, we can't walk—it's raining…We're in Denver! No…we're not waiting for a bus—it's raining…Dad! This is your fault. The least you can do is give me a ride."

He snaps his phone shut. He looks at Kyle, his face angry, but it softens. His Dad is picking them up. He's not going to get mad at the situation. He's just going to deal with it, "He said he'll pick us up."

"Didn't I tell you fags that this would happen?"

"Don't fucking start, Fatass!" Kyle snaps, not wanting to further Stan's aggravation, "Not now."

Stan handles his anger differently than Kyle. If anything pisses Kyle off, then the whole world hears about it the instant his temper ignites. But when Stan is angry, he gets frustrated and tries to keep his composure. He isn't prone to lashing out because he never usually cares enough, so when he does get upset, he holds it in. This never fails to make Kyle feel horrible, from the pit of his stomach to the tip of his chest. He wants to hug Stan and let him know that everything's cool; that his Dad is just an idiot.

Kyle scratches the hug idea to avoid slander from Cartman and catcalls from Kenny. Instead, he just leans into his seat and gets comfortable since they have to sit and wait for their ride to arrive. Hopefully, they'll be out of this parking lot and back in South Park within an hour or two. If that's the case, then the day is still salvageable. They can be back in time for dinner. But that's only if Mr. Marsh leaves right away, and reliable isn't a word usually associated with Stan's dad.


	2. Part Two

Road Rage - Part Two

When the rain comes to a slow pace and the four boys are on the verge of falling asleep in uncomfortable seats, Randy Marsh pulls into the parking lot of Ed's Arcade. After Stan's piece of junk is on the back of a tow truck, the boys pile into Randy's car, all eager to make their way back to South Park.

Mr. Marsh is clad in his usual gray pants and teal button-up shirt. He's sucking the life out of a thick vanilla milkshake through a narrow straw. Other than Randy's intense slurping, the ride back is relatively quiet. Kenny, Kyle and Cartman are shouldered against one another in the back seat. Much to Kyle's annoyance, he's stuck in the middle, pressed against Cartman's fat excuse for a body.

Stan is in the front seat with his feet kicked up against the dash and his arms crossed defiantly across his chest. He can't even look at his father. After all these years, his dad is still an idiot. One would think that the man would grow wiser in his old age, but no.

Stan is convinced that his father was tricked into something, because he refuses to believe that his dad would _intentionally_ give him that piece of shit. It's the only logical reason he wouldn't tell Stan where he got the car in the first place.

"Dad?" He asks, and it's the first thing that he says to his father since he hung up on him earlier, "Where did you get that car anyway?"

Randy doesn't look at his son. Instead, he only responds with a shrug as he turns to get onto the highway to head back home.

"Really?" Stan mimics the shoulder movement, "That's it? Come on, where did you get it? You can at least give me an explanation since I was stuck in a parking lot for two hours because it doesn't work."

Randy cocks an eyebrow with another slurp of his dessert, "Why didn't you boys just go into the arcade to pass the time?"

Kenny attempts to lend a muffled explanation, but Randy interrupts him since he is unable to "speak Kenny" like the boys can, "Ken, you really need to take that thing off your head when you're talking. People can't understand a word you're saying."

Kenny rolls his eyes and pulls the hood down, "Esteban freaked out. He's banned, and we weren't allowed back in because he was with us."

"Esteban? Are you hanging out with Mexicans now, Stan?"

Kyle shakes his head, "Esteban is Cartman. He told the guard that's what his name is."

"Fuckin' right I did." Cartman says, "Like I'd give those pigs my real name."

"Dad," Stan interrupts, trying to get back on point, "Why won't you tell me where you got the car?"

Randy sighs, "Don't tell your mother, alright?" He takes another slurp before admitting: "I won it in a bet."

"You won it in a bet," Stan repeats, deadpan.

"Yeah, I bet Stu that he couldn't build a beer meister. He said he could, and if he lost the bet, he'd give me this car that he found."

"What!" Stan yells.

"I knew it!" Cartman yells, hopping in his seat, "I knew he got that piece of shit from Kenny's poor ass family!"

"Shut up, Cartman!" Kyle and Kenny both simultaneously yell.

"Are you kidding me?" Stan asks, "You really just gave me some shitty car that someone just _found?_ Did you even get it checked out? Do you even know where he got it?"

"Of course I do. His auto mechanic buddy gave it to him. Stu wanted to sell it for parts, but I said you wanted a car. That's where the bet came in."

"Of course," Kyle comments lowly from the back seat, his eyes on the ceiling, "because that's the logical point for a bet to build a beer meister to come in. Makes perfect sense."

Stan gives up. He doesn't even want to know anymore. At this point, he just looks like an ass for even accepting this "gift" in the first place. He just shakes his head, mumbles a "whatever," and keeps his gaze on the train of Colorado license plates along the highway.

After a few moments of silence, Randy decides to try and change the topic to something lighter, "Maury was good today, Stan." He makes it a point to control the car with his left hand and the tip of his knees while his right attends to his dessert.

Stan doesn't even bother with acknowledgement. Today's episode of Maury is the last thing on his mind.

When Randy doesn't receive a reaction, he continues, oblivious to the fact that Stan is still angry, "This one was called 'I Was Only Fifteen, but I Know That You're my Baby's Father.'"

"I seen that one," Kenny says casually from the back seat, receiving sudden stares from Kyle and Cartman.

Stan just closes his eyes, hoping that the ride will end immediately. His father is one of the few things that is a constant embarrassment, no matter how old he gets.

"Yeah? I left when they brought out that girl Shauna's test results. There were three different boys on stage. Her mom was really upset, but then Stan called."

"Sorry to interrupt your show, Dad," The sarcasm drips harsh from Stan's lips, but Randy takes it as a sincere apology and tussles his son's hair on his head with a small swerve of the car.

"It's all right, it was a rerun. Why would you want a kid at fifteen anyway? Good thing that I don't have to worry about that kind of stuff with you, huh, Stan?"

Cartman scoffs, "That's for damn sure."

Kyle immediately backhands Cartman right in the chest and he recoils just as fast before his hand is sucked into the endless sea of man boobage. Cartman coughs out an "oof" and Randy eyes the back seat through the rearview mirror, unsure what that comment suggests and why it caused such a reaction.

"What do you mean by that, Eric?"

Stan and Kyle's eyes magnify, fear pushing aside their aggravation from the day. This is the last thing that they need on top of everything else—coming out to a parent. Neither of them intended for this to happen for a very, very long time. Kyle has always argued that if they're still dating when they're forty, then that would probably be the best time to spill the beans about their gay courting. Certainly not any time soon, and _definitely_ not now.

Kyle stares daggers at Cartman. If he hints at even one thing, Kyle is going to push him through the car door and onto the highway. Kyle is well aware that he won't be seriously injured—Cartman has enough padding to survive.

A horn bellows from behind.

"What the…?" Randy asks, bouncing his eyes back and forth between his mirrors. Kyle and Stan each turn in their seats, hoping that this is enough of a distraction to forget the topic.

A black pickup truck, double the height of Randy's compact, speeds up alongside the car. For the first time since the boys saw him today, Randy actually puts his milkshake down within the cup holder.

Randy has never dealt with road rage in a civilized fashion. He's always had a bit of a knee jerk temper, but when it comes to driving, all bets are off. And when the truck cuts in front of him, causing him to swerve the car, this situation is anything but an exception.

"What the fuck!" He yells, "Who does this son of a bitch think he is? God forbid I do the speed limit! He just cuts in front of me? I was an inch away from his bumper. A fucking inch!" His foot weighs into the accelerator without the least bit of hesitation and his fingers squeeze grooves into the steering wheel.

Stan doesn't even turn his head. He's quite used to this kind of reaction, "Dad, just let it go."

"What an asshole," Cartman says from the backseat, feeding Randy's anger.

"Stan, if you just let things like this go, these assholes are going to walk all over you. You have to have some balls while driving, or people will just keep cutting you off. Like this douchebag, here." Randy begins following so close to the pickup, that the license plate is practically inside the windshield.

Stan pinches the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, "Oh God. Really, Dad? That doesn't even make sense." He looks at the speedometer, watching the needle climb higher, "Can you at least slow down?"

"Calm down, Stan! This is no time to panic!"

Randy changes lanes, and before they know it, they are speeding down the highway, neck and neck with the "douchebag." Randy honks once, and then two more times, pressing into the horn much harder than needed. The other driver looks to be a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache that rivals old-school porn stars. When Randy gets the driver's attention, he tells Stan to look away, and then he throws the angriest middle finger that he can muster to the vehicle in the other lane.

The man's mustache curves upward with a smile. He waves at Randy, increases speed, and cuts off their car—again.

"Oh no he didn't!" Cartman yells from the back seat, "What a total asshole!"

"Cartman!" Kyle yells, already infuriated that he has to deal with this shit on top of everything else. He doesn't need Cartman encouraging the behavior, "Shut your goddamn mouth!"

"Aw, what! You son of a bitch!" Randy yells and his eyes roam the car, looking for an idea, for _anything_. He can't let this mustached-fucker get away.

His eyes land on his milkshake—Pure genius.

"Take the wheel, Stan."

"What!" Stan yells, "Dad!" And when Randy just lets go of the steering wheel without even waiting for an approval from his son, Stan has no choice but to hurry and control the car before they spin out of control. "What the hell are you doing?!"

Randy grabs the milkshake from the cup holder. He opens his window completely and maneuvers his entire upper body out of the opening, knowing full well that this is one of the best ideas that he's _ever_ had. He'll show this bastard who thinks that he's all high and mighty with his stupid truck and his stupid mustache.

The three boys in the back seat watch their driver, wide-eyed in horror, each silently praying.

"We're gonna die, aren't we?" Kyle asks with as much emotion in his voice as a stagnant hum to a refrigerator.

Randy steadies himself the best he can while keeping his foot out-stretched on the accelerator. Wind whips him in the face, and his clothes puff out like parachute. His eyes are in slits, bugs fly at his face, and he reaches his arm high in the air as he aims his dessert right for his target. He silently counts to three in his head, steadies his arm back, and beams the milkshake over the hood of his car towards the truck.

And if they weren't in a moving vehicle, speeding passed 60 MPH, it may not have boomeranged right back at the car, coating the entire windshield in a sheet of white.

"Shit!" Randy yells, propelling himself back into the driver's seat. He can't see anything through the wall of dessert, let alone that pickup truck. Panic replaces anger and he doesn't know what to do. He can't just suddenly break, and he can't just suddenly turn. Windshield wipers are doing nothing. He needs to get off the road as soon as possible and he doesn't know how.

The car swerves left, and then right as the boys all yell simultaneously in terror. The car weaves through white lines and honking horns sting their ears with the words: This is it. They really are going to die.

Randy sticks his head out of his driver's side window again, his only chance to get an actual view of the road, and spots the edge of the highway lined with grass. He pumps the breaks, and aims that way the best he can, hoping to God that they don't hit anything or anyone.

They spin off the highway and bounce into a pit of grass, only a few feet away from a tree.

The car comes to a stop with a harsh jerk and all is silent except for the hum of the car motor and the heavy breathing from all five passengers. Randy's eyes follow the thick coating dripping down his windshield from top to bottom. "Is everyone, okay?"

Kyle bites down on his bottom lip, hard, resisting the urge to just punch Mr. Marsh in the back of the head. He almost killed them! "Fine." He says, his voice burning with post-fear and exasperation.

"Jesus Christ, Dad!" Stan yells with a gaze half furious and half terrified.

Randy doesn't even have an explanation to back up his actions. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best idea. Everything in his head starts with "I was…" "I just…" "Well he…" but he has enough sense to not even go there right now. He turns in his seat, and puts a hand to his son's face, turning it every way possible to make sure there aren't any repercussions from the almost-accident, "Are you sure you boys are all right?"

He turns to look in the back seat, and Kyle's anger hasn't faded, it's only made his face that much more red. Cartman swallows and nods, and Kenny nods, too—as if they hadn't just had a near death experience. He's used to this kind of situation, after all. If anything, Kenny is excited that he _didn't_ die. He expected to be the only one that flew out of the car, death clinging to him like the little bastard that it can be. This is a lucky circumstance for Kenny.

"Okay," Randy says again, this time with a heavy sigh, "Sorry about that. Talk about backfiring, huh?"

"I would think so," Kyle says through clenched teeth and his knuckles begin to fade back to their pale flesh versus panic white. First, Fatass' arcade situation, then Stan's shitty car situation, and now, a near death situation—awesome. Kyle cannot think of a better day to have just stayed home.

Randy turns in his seat to take a look at the road that they just skidded off of. Dark, parallel lines coat their trail, "That asshole got away, too."

"Why is that even relevant right now, Dad!? Seriously!" Stan snaps, his voice rushed and shaken. He turns to his father for the first time since he got in the car, his neck already beginning to ache from a nice case of minor whiplash. He notices speckles of white scattered throughout his father's face, mustache and clothing, "You have milkshake all over you."

"Huh?" Randy looms close to the rearview mirror, "Oh, Jesus." He takes the back of his forearm and wipes it over his face, though it's closer to smearing the dessert around his cheeks and nose rather than actually clearing anything off. "Come on, boys. We have to get all this off the windshield if we want to head home. I think I have some paper towels and rags in the trunk."

The four reluctantly follow along with Stan's dad as he moves towards the trunk, their legs still jello from fear. Their eyes line the layer of liquid dripping onto the hood of the car and it's a miracle that they made it off the highway alive, and without flipping. Stan sighs again and Kyle directs a subtle, yet sympathetic, look towards him.

Randy pulls out two rolls of paper towels from the truck and the group gets to work on clearing the vehicle free of vanilla milkshake.

"It looks like someone spooged all over the car," Cartman comments, putting in close to no effort whatsoever as his hand slowly circles around a bare corner of the windshield.

Kyle wipes down the car with vigorous movement. The faster they work, the faster they can go home and move on from this horrible day. Mr. Marsh isn't even helping the boys clean the milkshake off the car, either. He's just watching, pretending that he is monitoring the cleanup and telling the boys that they're missing spots. And Fatass is barely even doing a goddamn thing.

"Cartman," Kyle begins, his eyes in slits, "you can at least help us out."

Cartman takes his index finger and pushes the corner of his paper towel. Stan isn't sure if it's his deluded mind with an honest attempt, or portraying as little effort as possible to piss off Kyle. It's probably the latter.

"Why the hell do I have to help? It's not like I did anything. Just because you like to eat spooge, doesn't mean I have to touch it." He smirks, still well aware of the conversation that was left unattended in the car before the milkshake incident.

Kyle can feel Mr. Marsh's eyes zone in on him and only him at the expense of Cartman's remark. He freezes, but keeps his rag circling in a slow motion to a spot on the car that he has already cleaned. He can't even look at Mr. Marsh, let alone Stan. He keeps his eyes on the car, his arm moving faster. "Shut. Up." he seethes, his annoyance apparent.

Cartman's grin grows even wider. This is a tiny way to get back at Mr. Marsh for almost throwing his ass into oncoming traffic, and an opportunity to piss off Stan and Kyle, which is an opportunity that he never likes to turn down. The fact that coming out to their parents has taken this long is absolutely atrocious, anyway. How dare they hide their love from their parents. "What? Everyone knows that you're the one who sucks Stan's dick. You're the little bitch out of the relationship, Kyle."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What?" Randy says, "And language, Eric. Jesus Christ."

Mr. Marsh's voice echoes through Kyle's mind as he pole-vaults into panic mode. Stan and Kenny are suddenly no longer cleaning the windshield of the car either, and both of their faces mirror absolute shock. Randy looks to all four boys and the discomfort of the words is planted on each of their faces. Except for Cartman, who is smiling ear to ear.

"Cartman. You _fuck_ ," Kyle says, looking around frantically at his surroundings, searching for the best fucking instrument to club the fat fuck in his fucking face with.

For as long as they came out to their friends, it has always been understood that their relationship isn't to be disclosed to any parentals. It's the common code of teenagers versus adults. It's been this way since they were in Terrance and Phillip pajamas, and just because they are seventeen now, does not mean that parents are to be included in anything.

Stan and Kyle were never big on PDA. They've always kept that to themselves. The only reason that Cartman knows that the two of them are together-together is because Kenny can't keep his damn mouth shut.

Kyle looks to the clouds that are carelessly floating by and closes his eyes. He should have known that this day would come sooner or later. Cartman has probably been waiting for a moment like this to present itself. How they've even gotten away with it for this long is a miracle in itself.

Randy hasn't said anything yet. He finally turns to Stan, and his voice is suddenly a lot more serious than when he was talking about Maury, "Can I talk to you, Stan?"

Stan winces. This cannot be good, or even end well–not with the way that his father just found out. _"Oh hey, by the way, your son is getting sucked off by his best friend that he's had since pre-school. You know, the friend that you let him be alone with every day. Yeah, that friend."_

Stan reluctantly follows behind his father a few feet away from the sticky car. Kyle keeps his eyes on him as if he is walking a plank. Who knows how Mr. Marsh is going to react? Sure, Stan's family isn't homophobic, but who knows in regards to their own son? Their only son. Either way, the car-ride home is going to be awkward.

Not to mention, Mr. Marsh will probably tell Kyle's parents.

Kyle gasps, his breath halting in his throat. This is not the way for his mother to find out.

Out of nowhere, he's got a plate full of stress and responsibility. He takes his eyes off of Stan and Mr. Marsh since he can't make out what's being said anyway, and turns to Cartman.

Cartman is standing there with this look of triumph on his face, as if he had just won a medal of douchebaggery.

Kyle's blood boils. If he didn't have bad luck, he'd have no luck at all.

"Well, well, well, Kyle," Cartman begins, daring to take a step forward, "what do we have here?" He extends a hand to Stan and Mr. Marsh as if he is displaying a prize to be won on a game show, Vanna White style.

It's still difficult to tell what is being said between the two, but Stan cannot seem more uncomfortable. He and his dad are about the same height now, and whether Stan wants to deny it up and down or not, he's beginning to look an awful lot like his father. But, despite the height similarities, he cannot seem smaller. His eyes are on the ground and his father's hand is on his shoulder. Randy looks concerned, and he does seem to be somewhat mad—or at least upset.

"What the hell did you do that for, Cartman?" Kyle asks, "That was fucked up, even for you. You know that we don't want our parents knowing yet. I don't go around telling everyone that you still sleep with that stupid frog."

"What!" Cartman yells, his cruel and manipulative composure falling in an instant at the mention of Clyde Frog, "You don't know what the _fuck_ you're talking about. I stopped sleeping with Clyde Frog a long time ago. Unlike you, who still sleeps with his little pussy friend every night." His voice is louder than Kyle would like it to be. It's bad enough Mr. Marsh has to take in this confession right now, he doesn't need Fatass adding fuel to the fire by yelling about how he sleeps with his son, too. "But, I'm sure that's different than just falling asleep with a stuffed animal, right?" He raises his voice considerably louder.

Kyle clenches his fists, "Goddammit, just shut up, Cartman."

Cartman grins. He loves getting under Kyle's skin. Anything that he can say to get a rise out of Kyle, he goes for it. He thrives on it, "You two up playing tummy sticks all night?"

Kyle clenches his jaw and his eyes are in a rage, "You say one more fucking thing and I will snap that fat chunk of blubber between your head and shoulders that you try to call a neck!"

"Go ahead and try it, pussy! What, you think you're all tough now that you're getting all this protein in your puny little body from all the man junk you've been swallowing?"

"That's it," Kyle tosses his soggy paper towel to the ground. He stomps over to Cartman, his intentions to just fuck him up in the worst way possible his main and only concern.

And then, Kenny seems to come out of nowhere, and he grabs Kyle by the shoulders and walks him backwards away from Cartman with a shove.

"What the hell, Kenny! Don't fucking protect him!" Kyle yells, moving to push by Kenny, but Kenny just shoves him back.

"I'm not. You know goddamn well that I'm not. Just stop for a second, okay? Now is not the time for you two to beat the shit out of each other," He pushes his piece of paper towel into Kyle's chest. "Just hold off. Let's get this shit off the car and get out of here."

Kenny's voice of reason manages to keep the other two at a civilized bay while they finish cleaning off the car. By the time that Randy and Stan come back, all signs of milkshake have been wiped away, and the five of them get into the car and drive onto the highway at an overly cautious speed.

The car ride back is painfully quiet. Randy is not a man to be messed with when he is angry. Normally, he is fun loving and oblivious, but when he is angry, he's like a twelve year old boy that doesn't speak to his parents for grounding him.

"Dad? Can you at least say something to me?"

Randy doesn't oblige. He just sucks in his bottom lip and keeps his sight on the long highway in front of him, tracing the way home. The very long and very _straight_ highway.

Kyle is sitting in the back seat, unable to even look at Mr. Marsh. How could this have happened? He knew that Cartman would inevitably blow their cover. This is all Kenny's fault. He just had to go and tell Cartman in the first place. Of all people! Who would trust that Fatass with any kind of valuable information, let alone something like this?

Stan looks away from his father and keeps his eyes on his lap. He sighs, "I'm sorry, Dad," but he still receives nothing in return, not even a glance in his direction.

The car pulls up beside Cartman's house first. Cartman mumbles a thanks, hugs his backpack, and picks back up where his waddle left off down his front pathway. As soon as his mother opens the door, he greets her with a helpless face and a heavyhearted frown before confessing: "They sold the Play Station."

"Oh no, sweetie!" She cries, and pulls him close, "let Momma bake you some cookies." She waves at the car, and Randy's next stop is Kenny's house.

The lumber and empty beer cans scattered throughout the McCormick property make much more sense now that the confession of the beer meister bet is out in the open. And as Kyle watches Kenny walk through his front door, he suddenly realizes that he's in the car with Stan and Mr. Marsh—alone. He clenches his palms together, and the sweat slowly pools into the palms of his hands.

But, not a word is said all the way to his house. Kyle isn't sure if the silence or an actual confrontation would be worse, but he can't even think of anything to say if he wanted to.

Randy parks in front of the green home, and before Kyle can even thank him for the "ride," Randy says to Stan, "Don't be long. You're grounded." Even with vanilla milkshake clinging to his mustache, he's still intimidating right now.

Stan sighs and opens his door in unison with Kyle, "I know, Dad."

Not even three steps away from the car, Stan grabs hold of Kyle's left hand.

"What are you doing?" Kyle asks immediately, completely acute to the fact that Stan's father is in clear view behind them. He instinctively tries to jerk away, but Stan does not let go. And he doesn't respond to Kyle's question the rest of the way to the front door.

"Listen, Kyle," Stan finally says, stepping onto the doorstep, "you know that I love you, right?"

Kyle stares at him, giving Stan his every bit of attention. This seems serious. It has to be. After all, Mr. Marsh has to know that they're together by now after that little talk on the edge of the highway, and now with the public hand holding.

"Right?" Stan asks again, waiting for an answer.

"Oh, yeah, dude. Of course. Sorry," Kyle looks down and his feet sidestep before looking back to Stan. A pang of nerves swim through his stomach as his cheeks heat from his boyfriend's words and Mr. Mash's stare. Everything feels so out in the open right now, here, on his front step. "I didn't know that you were _literally_ asking me the question. I thought you were just starting to say somethi—never mind. I do, totally. And you know I love you too."

Stan smiles. It's rather cute how uncomfortable Kyle can get under certain romantic circumstances.

"Well," Stan begins, grabbing Kyle's other hand so that they're both in tow, "I don't want us to worry about other people anymore. I'm sick of it. I don't give a shit about who knows. It doesn't matter. People can say what they want, and we both know that our parents will get over it. Fuck everybody else, ya know? We work—that's all that matters."

Kyle isn't sure when his smile started. It could have happened somewhere between misunderstanding that a question was indeed a question, or that the two of them work, but his face hurts already from grinning. He's not even concerned about Mr. Marsh anymore, sitting in the car, still sticky and still staring. He's unsure of what to even say. He has such an overwhelming sense of love for the boy in front of him that he still manages to feel that tingle throughout his entire body down to his finger tips when he is with Stan.

They do work. And that's all that ever really mattered.

Stan pulls Kyle close and they kiss, each sharing their first real public moment together—finally—and neither give a single fuck about who can see them this time.

But, it's cut very short thanks to Randy and his car horn.

"I'll meet you at the bus stop for school tomorrow?" Stan asks, taking a step away from Kyle's front door as their hands part ways.

Kyle nods, still trying to restrain his idiotic smile. "Yeah, dude. Is he…" He nods to the car sitting impatiently by the curb, "ya know, real pissed?"

Stan waves his Dad off, "Don't worry about him. He'll get over it. He's really only pissed that I didn't clue him in."

Kyle scoffs, amused and practically in disbelief, "Are you serious? That's why he's mad?"

Stan laughs with a nod, "Yeah. He asked me how long, and when I told him five years, he was all 'Oh my God, I can't believe you never even tried to tell me. I'm so butt hurt 'cause I'm your father, blah, blah, blah.'" He smiles, "He'll be fine. I'll call you later." He gives Kyle a short wave and a long smile before hopping back into his father's car.

Kyle lingers on his step as the car shrinks down the block, complete opposite of his huge smile. He clears his throat and tries to regain his composure before walking inside.

His mother sits in her favorite recliner, kicked back in relaxation with the daily paper spread open in front of her. Her eyes peep out from over the pages as soon as her son enters the room, "How was your day, bubbee?"

Kyle slowly nods, almost as if it's affirmation for himself. His smile hasn't disappeared. "It was a good day, Ma… Yeah, a really good day." He looks around, searching for the rest of his family, "Is Dad home? I need to talk to you guys." 

The End.

A/N: Thank you for reading if you made it this far! Hope you enjoyed, and please let me know your thoughts on this little story!


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